


Gravestones

by FeralCreed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Death, Feels, Ghosts, John Watson - Freeform, Music, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, gravestones, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:59:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/pseuds/FeralCreed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John and Sherlock die, they meet together at their gravestones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravestones

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by the following picture. All credit goes to the artist, with/of whom I have no knowledge, communication, or agreements. https://scontent-b-lga.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-frc3/t1/1510354_585703621519127_263021177_n.jpg

It was warm outside, but I couldn't sense the heat. The wind blew through the chinks in the stone wall, but I didn't feel it pull at my hair and clothes. I heard only the faint echo as the leaves of the tree above us rubbed together. Car horns blared down the street, but they made no more noise to me than a mosquito. Almost everything seemed quiet now. There wasn't much that I could hear as clearly as before. But being dead wasn't all that bad.

Or, rather, being a ghost. Strange, I'd always thought that there wasn't anything else after you died. I'd thought that that was the end. Of course, I'd thought that the end had come years ago when Sherlock faked his own death by falling from the top of Bart's-Bloody-Hospital. But that had been different. I was still alive then, but not any more.

There's a group of people walking towards me, ones I used to know. I know they can't see me, but it still seems strange for them to walk right through me like I was a holograph or smoke screen. I tried saying hello once, but they never heard me. Mary, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. It's been a few months since Sherlock and I died. Neither one of us had expected a group of terrorists right in the heart of London, but when Sherlock's “rats” began to move he knew that something was up.

He warned Lestrade, but Greg couldn't do anything about a man who was under the direct protection of half the members of the British government and secret service. Only the three of us knew what was going to happen. We were the only ones who weren't surprised when Moriarty destroyed three historical landmarks, one for each year he'd been gone.

They'd been surprised when Moriarty came to 221B. Even Sherlock hadn't expected that move. At first glance, he hadn't changed. But when I looked closer, I could see that he was paler, thinner, and I knew that something was wrong with him. He told us himself. Said he was dying from a disease that no man could cure and that every man had. Sherlock asked him what disease that was, and Moriarty said “Hate”. He had left then, but he wasn't finished with us.

Both Sherlock and I almost died the next day. Then Moriarty's men came after me again, but nobody ever attacked Sherlock. It worried him, I could tell. He thought that Moriarty meant to plan a darker, more personal attack. We both knew that this time Moriarty would kill Sherlock himself, and make sure that the great detective was dead. A week passed. Then a month.

We knew the end would come. But we weren't prepared. The bomb went off. The ambulances came. We were separated. I tried to say something, but my body wouldn't move. Moriarty's face grinned over me, a needle was thrust in my arm, and drug-induced darkness came.

I don't remember everything clearly after that. I tried, several times. But all I did was make my head hurt, so after a while I gave up. Sherlock ignored what had happened as if we'd just been for a walk down the street. He'd contacted me telepathically – strange how things worked now – and asked me to come to the churchyard. I knew he could read my mind like a book. I knew he felt my questions. But he didn't bother to answer, so I didn't bother to ask.

He was waiting for me. Sitting on the black slab that bore his name, legs crossed at the knee. Fingering his violin. I sat down on my own marker like it was a chair, toeing the ground with one foot often enough to keep my balance. He started playing, the “Waltz for Mary and John” that he'd written for our wedding. The fog that had been blanketing the ground moved away as the sun rose. The bleak early-morning sun didn't push through the whiteout that surrounded us. Even the faint sounds of life were deadened.

I saw the tree and the grass. I heard Sherlock's violin. I felt the cool marble through my jeans, the foggy moisture on my face. I had thought that we were ghosts, but I guess we weren't much more than gravestones.


End file.
